


An Unlikely Team

by Brightspark (Kitchat)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alien Tech That's Never Fully Explained, Gen, Original Alien Species - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-04 13:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11556231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitchat/pseuds/Brightspark
Summary: Ambulon, Brainstorm, and Cyclonus walk into a hostile alien ship-- and no, surprisingly it's not the beginning of a joke.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story came to me in a dream quite literally. I intended it to be a one shot, but after it extended to 27 pages, I decided to split it up.
> 
> There's a character called Dr. Zhou in here and it's very heavily implied she's Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou from Overwatch. She was there in my dream. Who am I to deny her.

“Earth? That little ball of dirt?” Rodimus squints at the group of scientists assembled before him incredulously.

“And water. It’s dirt and water,” someone oh so helpfully adds. An insightful addition in at least one continuity, surely.

“What’s so important about that planet that you guys found the need to settle your differences, group up, and petition your captain to make a pit stop there?”

“Rodimus, we are having a discussion. I’m sure you have important… things… to attend to. It would be greatly appreciated if you would leave my office,” Megatron says with thinly veiled exasperation.

“It’s _my_ office too,” Rodimus says in a tone that is definitely _not_ petulant as he flips his feet up on the desk, lounging casually in a way that pushes himself right into Megatron’s space. “I’m the captain.”

“Co-captain,” one of the scientists pipes up and immediately gets shushed by the rest of the group.

“Please excuse the interruption,” Megatron ignores the interruptions, acting as if Rodimus isn’t currently pouting and wriggling around restlessly. Any more movement and Rodimus would be outright flailing. “You were saying?”

“Yes, um, the Galactic Coalition of Scientific Research will be holding a conference on space travel there. On Earth. And since Earth is _technically_ a mech friendly planet, this would be a great chance for us to attend. Especially since the usual planets for this conference are… er… less than enthusiastic about Cybertronian attendance.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Brainstorm, who had been suspiciously quiet the entire meeting, adds cheerfully, “since I’ve been asked to speak at the conference.”

“Only because they have not yet realized the association between a tendency towards absolute mayhem and your entire existence—a realization that would rightfully result in a restraining order barring you from the entire galaxy.”

“Aw, Percy, you really think they’d consider me that important? I’m flattered.”

“Plus, we’ve heard a lot of things about Earth, and it would be nice for some of us to see it in person,” Nautica chimes in, subtly elbowing Brainstorm to stop him from going ham on pushing Perceptor’s metaphorical buttons.

“It’s more or less any other organic planet you’ve come across,” Megatron pushes at Rodimus’ feet, forcing some space between them, but otherwise gives no acknowledgement towards his co-captain. “They’re technically mech friendly, yes, but a better term for the general attitude of humans towards Cybertronians would be ‘mech tolerant’. It’s not exactly positive.”

“No thanks to you,” Rodimus helpfully reminds.

“No thanks to _any_ of us,” Megatron corrects. “Credit where credit is due.”

“Off-duty time _outside_ of the ship would be good, too. As much as we all love the bland old Magnus-approved paint job on this ship is, I think everyone would appreciate a change in scenery,” Brainstorm suggests, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture at the faded white walls around them. “There’s no _harm_ in a bit of sight-seeing.”

“No harm? Your suggestion of unleashing a hundred Cybertronians on a barely tolerant organic planet is, as usual, a perfect formula for disaster,” Perceptor sighs as he drags a hand down his face, a familiar gesture when dealing with the weapons engineer.

“Hey, you’re thinking of us all going in our root modes. If we went as our alt-modes, we’d blend right in.”

“Yes, if the alt-modes in question were ubiquitous types on Earth. However, less common types—such as, but not limited to—a dozen or so unaccounted aircraft would surely raise suspicion when detected. I cannot imagine any reality where this would not. Especially if the aforementioned aircraft had noticeable features like a bright teal paint job.”

“I know you’re hypothetically speaking, but what if I—hypothetically—enjoy a good polish from time to time? You’re just sore you won’t be able to hide as a giant _microscope_. It’s okay; if you think _you’re_ going to have a hard time blending in, just imagine what _Ambulon_ is going to do. And—wait—Percy, you’re supposed to be arguing _in favor_ of going to Earth!”

“Holomatter avatars!” Nautica cuts in again, valiantly trying to wrench the conversation back on track. “We’ve also got Holomatter avatars that we could use.”

“You’ve fixed them from our last, uh, excursion?” Rodimus perks up. “Talk about _fast_.”

“Well… define the term _fixed_ ,” Brainstorm mumbles. “Do we have functional holomatter avatars? Yes. Technically. Are they able to last for a set, predictable duration of time without extreme malfunction? Well… If we really start stretching the meaning of the word ‘stable’, then maybe.”

Seeing that the discussion would likely be derailed if he didn’t do something, Megatron coughs politely to bring the attention back to him. “Brainstorm makes a good point, at any rate, about giving the crew a break,” he says. “We missed our last stop due to an unfortunate turn of events and the crew has been rather restless.”

“Weeeeeell,” Rodimus drawls out, “a rest stop _would_ increase crew morale, that’s true. Hmm, you know what? This is a good idea, Megatron. A great idea in fact! It’s time to set a course for Earth.” He jumps up from his seat and claps his co-captain on the shoulder. Megatron remains unmoved by the gesture (literally and emotionally) even though it clangs loudly in the stiff silence of the room.

“We still need to have it approved by Ultra Magnus as protocol dictates,” Megatron tries to remind the other co-captain. The same co-captain who is already halfway to the door. The same co-captain who speeds up his progress upon hearing the word “protocol”. “Rodimus!”

“I believe that you are perfectly equipped to handle this,” Rodimus shouts as he slinks out the door, making sure to put a poor, cautious scientist between him and Megatron’s line of sight—just in case he finally gives in to the urge to throw a particularly blunt object at Rodimus. “You’ve got this in the bag!”

Megatron can do nothing more than sigh heavily as Rodimus once again shimmies his way out of the dastardly hands of protocol. The large gray mech takes a moment out of his day to lament the existence of his co-captain.

“So,” Brainstorm ventures to speak after a few seconds of Megatron’s angry muttering had passed. He taps a stylus against his thigh in a rhythm that either speaks of impatience or nervousness (Megatron can’t discern which is which when it comes to the weapons engineer), “when are we landing?”

\---

“You two will be okay out there, right?” Brainstorm asks the two others walking with him. “There are only so many holomatter avatars we can provide. And, well, you two are probably the least intimidating, so hopefully we won’t be wrongfully convicted of terrorizing the planet.”

“Wait, wait a moment,” one of Brainstorm’s companions—a scuffed green monoformer with orange accents—interrupts, “how did we get out here? Weren’t we back at your lab?”

“Yeah, I agree with Jumpbot here. Could have sworn we were _just_ on the Lost Light. Is anyone else getting the feeling that they were just unwittingly dropped here? Really feels like this part could have used a better transition scene,” the second companion, Tripodeca, agrees.

“What do you mean by ‘transition scene’?”

“Hm, damned if I know.”

“Did any of you touch anything while we were in the lab?” Brainstorm asks warily, squinting at the other two mechs. “This reeks of the meta bomb. Only the meta bomb can create a flimsy, shoddy excuse to get out of writing a good transition.”

“No, no, no. I swear we didn’t touch anything!” Tripodeca exclaims.

“Well,” Jumpbot says in a pondering manner, “not anything that seemed _important_ looking anyways. And we definitely did not touch anything _on purpose_ , out of curiosity or otherwise.”

Brainstorm sighs a little bit, more of a quick puff of air than real annoyance, “Well, whatever. We’re running late as it is. I’ll leave it for now and fix it when I get back.”

“What took you so long, anyways?” Jumpbot asks.

“I needed to prepare for my talk. With all the fuss and demand for holomatter avatars, I didn’t really have a chance to prepare anything new so I’m just going to recycle my old work and talk about that. To be fair, I’ve never _officially_ talked about this before,” Brainstorm explains, reaching into his subspace and pulls out a familiar yellow, rectangular object.

“The briefcase again?” Tripodeca shakes his head.

“What about it?” Brainstorm huffs, cradling the briefcase close to his chest. “The reduction of specialized large scale machinery into smaller, more portable pieces is a good topic. I should know.”

“Certainly,” Jumpbot claps a hand on Brainstorm’s shoulder. “You’ll do a good job out there. Despite what Tripodeca here thinks, you’ll do alright out there.”

“Alright? Just alright? I think you’re pronouncing ‘stupidly magnificent’ wrong. But oh!” The jet snaps his fingers suddenly, as a thought suddenly occurs to him, “Speaking of alright, will you two be okay without holomatter avatars out there? You’ll probably come under a lot of… scrutiny… but there’s not enough reliably functioning holomatter avatars to go around for the entire crew. And since you two are some of the least intimidating mechs on the ship…”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all,” Tripodeca nods, waving Brainstorm’s concern away.

“I don’t know if the humans will agree with your definition of ‘not intimidating’, seeing as I am still a hulking inorganic mass compared to most of the audience out there,” Jumpbot grumbles, “but at the very least, you’ll be able to spot us supporting you in the crowd. We may be two sore thumbs, but we’re two sore thumbs up.” He flashes Brainstorm a double thumbs up, and the scientist huffs an amused laugh.

“Thanks Jumpbot. Whether or not you’re ready to reveal your beautiful faces out there, you’re going to have to do so soon. I’ll be leaving you here. I still need to prepare and I’ve got to jet,” Brainstorm waves to the two of them as he sets off down a separate hallway.

“Good luck Brainstorm,” Tripodeca calls out after him.

“And seriously? An alt-mode pun? I thought he was above that level of humor.”

Tripodeca and Jumpbot squeeze their way inside the large event hall—large relatively to everything else on Earth, anyways—and are a little dismayed to find that almost all the seats have been filled up. By various people who managed to show up on time. Of course. Such is life.

The murmuring in the room dies down a little when the two mechs enter, but start up again shortly afterwards. Despite the low voices and carefully neutral tones of the attendees, a cold impression of hostility slowly descends over Tripodeca and Jumpbot. The minibot and monoformer make their way through the room as delicately as they can, skirting around the main event areas and keeping closer to the walls. Even if there is room to seat the two of them in the middle of the area, neither Tripodeca or Jumpbot want to be subjected to the various expressions of distrust coming from all sides.

There’s only one table secluded and empty enough to satisfy the two mechs, but it’s already occupied by a bespectacled human woman. She doesn’t notice Tripodeca and Jumpbot at first, too engrossed in shuffling and reorganizing her notes. Tripodeca coughs (rather suddenly, in Jumpbot’s opinion) after a few awkward pauses of them standing around; the woman jumps, “Oh! Sorry, sorry… I didn’t see you two there. May I help you?”

“We were wondering if we could take our seats here,” Jumpbot puts a hand on his minibot companion’s shoulder and squeezes gently as a reminder. _Be courteous and do not startle the human._

“Of course! You didn’t have to ask,” the woman jumps up from her seat and motions for the two of them to go ahead and take their places. She only sits down once the two of them are settled. “Are you two the only Cybertronians attending?”

“No, there’s more of us, but the rest of us have holomatter avatars in place to keep you humans from freaking out.”

“Oh, that’s too bad to hear. The council in charge of organizing the event had a hard time deciding who could attend… We pushed for inclusivity,” she frowns a little, fiddling with her nametag which proclaims her to be _Dr. M Zhou_ , “but it seems we could have done more.”

“Eh, it is what it is. Ain’t it, Jumpbot?” Tripodeca nudges his friend, prompting the green monoformer to slap his hands away.

Jumpbot scoffs, “Not like we can do much about it ourselves.”

“Jumpbot? Is that your name? Oh, we haven’t been properly introduced!” the scientist extends her arm, freezes, then seems to reconsider the sheer size of her two tablemates and retracts her arm. “I’m Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou.”

Jumpbot inclines his head in a respectful nod, “Nice to meet you, doctor. Everyone calls me Jumpbot, but no, it’s not my real name. My friend here is Tripodeca.”

“Nice to meet you two; Is ‘Jumpbot’ a nickname of yours?”

“Oh, oh, I’ll tell her,” Tripodeca volunteers eagerly. Jumpbot sighs and has barely nodded “go-ahead” before the minibot is eagerly launching into the story. “So, okay, we’re crew members on the spaceship _The_ _Lost Light_ … and well, it occurs to me you might not have heard of us but that’s okay. All you need to know is that we do a lot of space travel. A _lot_ of it.

“So we stopped by Biaclite – you know, one of the small organic planets in the Iahines system?—to pick up some supplies and respond to a distress beacon. Typical space travel stuff, you know. Thing you should know about Biaclite: its inhabitants are _cyborgs_.”

“They’re symbiotes,” Jumpbot cuts in. “The technical, scientific term is inorganic-organic symbiotes. Sometime during the planet’s history, a non-native species—likely the inorganic ancestors—and a native species struck up a mutually beneficial co-existence. Over time, they adapted so well to life together that they are virtually inseparable. I got a datapad about Biaclite’s history while we— ”

“Yeah, _cyborgs_. Anyways, the thing is. Cyborg beings are going to have cyborg viruses. We didn’t really think it would affect us, because we’re equipped to deal with your usual cocktail of inorganic viruses, and organic ones don’t really _affect_ us because we’re, y’know,” Tripodeca waves a hand vaguely at his body as if to say _Big, metal mech, hello?_ “But, oh wow, we were wrong.

“Turns out the bug we brought on board was _just_ compatible enough to affect our systems, but also _just_ organic enough that our medics were at a loss.”

“It was a parasite,” Jumpbot clarifies. “And it was a lot less efficient than Tripodeca is making it sound like, for story-telling sake. It was slow-acting, most likely due to the fact that they needed a large colony to affect a Cybertronian. Smaller mechs were less likely to sustain a large enough initial colony, and so mostly escaped that situation unscathed.”

“You mean the reason I wasn’t infected is because I’m a minibot? Aw, and here I thought it was my oil baths,” Tripodeca sounds put out by this revelation. “I really shouldn’t have gone all in on betting night at Swerve’s.”

“You should never go all in on betting night at Swerve’s, Tri. You do realize that Whirl runs the whole thing, right?”

“Ah so what, I owe my buddy Mainframe some shannix. Let’s move on with the story!” Tripodeca swats Jumpbot lightly on the arm. “That’s for distracting me.

“So where were we? Oh right, parasite. Yeah, sure it was slow-acting and not everyone got symptoms, but it was still jarring when the symptoms manifested _all at once_. Just… one night everyone is fine, having a drink. And a recharge cycle later, you wake up to half the ship _screaming_.”

At Dr. Zhou’s alarmed look, Jumpbot cuts in again, “It was rather alarming, but the screams weren’t intentional. The parasite takes control over a lot of functions of the mech they live on, and causes a lot of startling, but not life-threatening, malfunctions.”

“And when we tried to quarantine them, they weren’t too happy about that,” Tripodeca continues on with his story, ignoring Jumpbot’s urge to interrupt and explain things. Ah, scientists. “A lot of crew members got downright violent because of the parasites. So our co-captains told everyone to stay inside their rooms and issued a lockdown.

“Jumpbot here was one of the few who was on the quarantine team… the quaranteam. Ah, ah,” Tripodeca waggles a finger in Jumpbot’s face, predicting correctly that the monoformer was about to interrupt. “I know you don’t like that name, but c’mon… you have to admit… Quaranteam…. It’s clever. Now let me finish the story.

“So Jumpbot was picked to be on this highly specialized team, despite being a monoformer—he doesn’t _turn_ into anything, y’know. I mean, I admire your choices and all, Jumpy, but when you’re facing mechs like _Cyclonus_ … any alt-mode is going to better than no alt-mode.

“But despite all of that, turns out that Jumpbot was _exactly_ what the quaranteam needed. Now, Cyclonus is one of _the_ most lethal mechs on our ship. It was rumored that he took down an entire squadron of Decepticons on Luna-1 with nothing but his sword and his hand practically severed! Obviously, everyone is going to be a little wary about tackling him head-on… except Jumpbot. Oh, he tackles it _very_ well and _very_ literally.

“Rodimus said that Jumpbot just pounced out of nowhere and grabbed Cyclonus like _this_ ,” Tripodeca lunges at the table and wraps his arms in a chokehold around an imaginary neck. “And then Jumpbot slammed Cyclonus down on the ground, and he was out for the count!”

“Wow, that sounds amazingly brave,” Dr. Zhou says, eyes shining slightly with awe.

Jumpbot snorts, “Don’t take Tripodeca seriously. He’s only heard the stories from Rodimus and Swerve, who aren’t always the most trustworthy of sources.

“They wanted me to be a part of the quaranteam—oh darn it, I said it. Don’t look so smug, Tri—because I am a pathologist. Of all those available, they thought I would be able to figure out a cure or a temporary solution the fastest. I had no intention of engaging in combat with any of the patients.

“Cyclonus was not the most difficult mech to subdue—there are far larger and more aggressive ones than him. But he was rather good at evading all of us; we had an inkling that he just wanted to avoid us and let the situation die down on its own. Ratchet, our Chief Medical Officer, was having none of that.

“You’d think Rodimus would have been more accurate, considering he was _there_ for the whole thing. The original plan was to work together and corner Cyclonus, and one of the medics would sedate him. The plan kind of worked… Ambulon’s team managed to get him to the cargo bay. But as soon as they got him cornered, he charged them and managed to knock down some of them. He’s not exactly a small or lacking in strength, you know.

“At around this time, our team entered the cargo bay from the upper level where we had been searching for Cyclonus and other wayward patients. I saw him heading for the doors, and I just sort of reacted. Didn’t think it through too much, but luckily, despite not having an alt-mode, I’m still very sturdy. I _jumped at him_ —not tackled—from the second level of the cargo bay and knocked him off his feet, Tri. I only wanted to stun him long enough for the medics to do their job. There was no pouncing involved.”

Tripodeca huffs, “You suck the fun out of everything.”

“Swerve—our barkeep—was there to witness the whole thing because he insisted on staying with his damned bar. And once Swerve sees something, the whole ship is _guaranteed_ to hear about it. Including the nickname he gave me,” Jumpbot shrugs. “Guess I’m stuck with it.”

“It was pretty surprising, the whole thing. Jumpbot is normally super reserved and conflict avoidant to the point he’s _basically_ a non-combatant. In fact, I’m pretty sure we’ve got non-combatants who are more eager to fight than he is,” Tripodeca says as he nudges Jumpbot’s side. Jumpbot only grunts at the friendly gesture. He doesn’t protest the friendly contact too much, just grumbles lightly at Tripodeca.

“Please, an unwillingness to fight is not indicative of ability. Or at least not indicative of willingness to drop kick a runaway patient,” Jumpbot snorts. “But speaking of surprising, you seem to be a very multitalented person, doctor. Working in medicine and space travel? Impressive. None of our medics are coming to the convention. And not because we don’t offer.”

“Oh, I’m not that kind of doctor. I’m a scientist, actually,” Dr. Zhou says, ducking her head shyly. “My main work is in climatology, but I’ve been asked to speak on fuel cell waste technology used in space travel. Earth’s current technology has a lot to be improved on, in terms of how damaging it is to organic planets.”

“Fuel cell waste technology? Wait, so you guys don’t use quantum engines?” Tripodeca tilts his head to the side.

“Quantum engines? No.”

“Yeah, most Cybertronian spaceships have got ‘em. They’re big, they’re flashy, and they’re filled with fluff.”

“ _Foam._ It’s quantum foam,” Jumpbot corrects Tripodeca. His vocalizer clicks on with the intention of giving a full on lecture about space travel technology, but Tripodeca hushes him quickly.

“Shush! It’s Brainstorm’s turn to speak,” the minibot nods at the stage. Brainstorm’s holomatter avatar steps out onto the podium to an almost completely silent audience, save for a half-hearted smattering of applause that probably originated from the other holomatter avatars situated throughout the room. Jumpbot is surprised to see that Brainstorm’s avatar is rather unassuming in appearance, with plain colored hair and a clean lab coat. Like most people, Jumpbot had assumed Brainstorm would have gone all out on the details of the avatar.

There’s a lot of murmuring in the crowd as Brainstorm starts to speak. Jumpbot has to turn his audial sensitivity up to maximum to be able to hear the scientist, though the whispers nearly drown him out at this distance. If Brainstorm is perturbed by the noise and murmuring, he doesn’t show it; he continues to cheerfully natter away about the importance of material in construction of quantum devices or something.

“I suppose he’s had a lot of practice talking to an inattentive audience,” Jumpbot mutters to himself, startling Tripodeca, who likely also had his audials turned up to maximum sensitivity.

“Not as much as Perceptor,” Tripodeca replies. “It’s gotten to the point where if I hear his voice, my mind just— _zzt_ —shorts out.”

“It’s a pity,” Dr. Zhou murmurs. “We were really excited to get approval for inviting a Cybertronian scientist to speak at the conference, but I can barely hear a thing from back here.”

Jumpbot turns back to the climatologist, “Why not sit closer, then? You need not worry about Tripodeca and I here; I’ll make sure to keep him in line.” He ignores the small, disgruntled noise of protest.

“I would, but most of the seats have been filled,” she sighs again. “And I have the suspicion most people in this room wouldn’t consider me ‘qualified’ to even be here, because of my work. It’s always about ‘how much farther can we go’ when it comes to space travel. They don’t like it when we ask ‘but should we go there?’”

“Was wondering why you were back here all on your own,” Tripodeca admits. “Aren’t humans, like, social creatures?”

Dr. Zhou smiles wryly, “You are correct. But that doesn’t mean we’re all accepting of everyone. Scenes like this are rather common.”

“Eh, seems to me that this is the way of many societies,” Tripodeca shrugs. “You’ve got ‘us’ and then you’ve got ‘them’. Us good, them bad.”

“A too simplistic way of looking at things,” Jumpbot admonishes.

“But it happens, and there’s no denying it. We’re all guilty of it, c’mon. Autobots and Decepticons?”

Jumpbot has nothing to say to his friend. The table lapses into a pensive silence as the three of them watch Brainstorm finish up his talk.

“It’s too bad I didn’t get to hear much. It sounds interesting,” Dr. Zhou muses.

Jumpbot nods, “He’s talking about the reduction of scale in quantum machines to turn them into more portable pieces. I’m sure if you’re interested, he might be inclined to leave you the notes for his talk.”

“Wow, we’re still working on developing quantum technology, and here he is already making it practical and accessible!” Dr. Zhou exclaims, eyes bright with admiration.

“Yeah,” Jumpbot says quietly, a hint of fierce pride coursing through him as he watches his friend finish up the speech. “Brainstorm is a genius.”

\---

He won’t admit it (refuses to admit it, because admitting it makes it _real_ ) but the whole ordeal drained Brainstorm. He finishes by thanking the audience for their time, and he briskly packs up his briefcase and notes. No grand demonstration, no far-fetched (yet not completely implausible) claims. No flourishing. Perceptor would be proud.

He retreats to the backstage area as fast as he can—even so, he nearly collides with the next speaker who’s on his way to the podium. Too eager to get started.

The backstage area is dim, and it feels secluded enough for Brainstorm to loosen up his tense posture. It’s been a long time since he gave a formal presentation on his work. He hasn’t been up there since the New Institute. Since… well, Quark.

Being out there in the open had made him feel so much smaller and more vulnerable, and not even because his holomatter avatar was small and squishy. No, even if his avatar was covered from head to toe in armor and twice the size of Ultra Magnus, Brainstorm is pretty sure he would still have felt too exposed.

He sits down somewhere and tries to quell the odd feeling of discomfort in his chest. It had been one thing to go up—bright, shiny, and with all the hope of being new— in front a panel of cautious administrators back at the New Institute with his newest project in tow, and another thing entirely to go in front of a (quite literally) alien audience and put what was basically his life’s greatest work on display. The murmurs and thinly veiled hostility had not gone unnoticed by him. At least he did see Jumpbot and Tripodeca way out in the audience, near the back. To his relief, they seem to be doing just fine.

“That didn’t go horribly, did it?” he questions himself softly. “Of course not. I’m too clever to let it have a different outcome.” It all sounds a bit hollow to him.

“Brainstorm? Why are you talking to yourself in the dark?” a quiet voice calls out, its unexpectedness making Brainstorm startle and bang his head against the desk he was sitting under. “Shh, settle down. You’re causing a ruckus.”

“Perceptor?” Brainstorm tries his best to sound as casual as he can, as if it’s a regular occurrence for him to be cowering in the dark underneath some human furniture. It doesn’t really work, but at the very least he doesn’t _whimper_ from the surprising amount of pain resulting from his collision with the desk.

“I couldn’t find you after your talk. I assumed you were either wreaking havoc upon this poor planet, or you’d gotten yourself hopelessly lost in this short expanse of hallway. When neither hypothesis proved correct, I…” Perceptor trails off, as if he’s unsure what to say. A ridiculous thought, in Brainstorm’s opinion. Whoever heard of Percy _not_ meticulously planning every sentence he utters for maximum word density? “I admit I got worried. Absurd, I know.”

“Yeah, well, how silly you must feel with your worry so unfounded! Everything is just fine and dandy,” Brainstorm means for it to come out bright and cheery like how he normally sounds, but he’s having a hard time calibrating his vocalizer just right and the words come out a lot quieter than intended.

Perceptor is silent, and even though it’s dark enough that Brainstorm can only make out Perceptor’s silhouette, he can almost feel the deep frown on his lab partner’s face.

“Really, Percy! I’m so touched you’ve missed me so much you went _all_ this way to come find me, but I—” Brainstorm’s vocalizer betrays him right then, making his voice practically warble on that last word. He makes a cough of embarrassment, to divert attention away from his little slip up as well as to give him time to reset his vocalizer. “I’ve really got to go.”

Perceptor follows Brainstorm out of the backstage area and into the doorway leading to the hallway outside. It’s lighter here, just light enough that Brainstorm can see Perceptor’s brow ridges pull together in a deep furrow of either suspicion or concern. Brainstorm knows that Perceptor has noticed his nervousness, his embarrassing but otherwise harmless malfunctioning vocalizer, and his avoidance. But Brainstorm also knows that despite all his wit and intellect, Perceptor has never known how to tactfully (or comfortably) approach these topics.

So despite how much Perceptor’s brows furrow with the desire of wanting to speak, wanting to ask, he stays mercifully, _mercifully_ silent and lets Brainstorm step away into the hall with shreds of his dignity still intact.

Brainstorm scurries—no, excuse you, he doesn’t do something as undignified as _scurry_. Call it “affecting a brisk pace”—to the nondescript gray door at the back of the hall that would lead him outside. The outside breeze rushes gently over Brainstorm’s frame, the slightly cool air making Brainstorm realize that his constrained agitation has been making him steadily heat up. Luckily, it is a cool day outside, with the overcast sky above Brainstorm writhing like a mass of Insecticons.

Wait.

Brainstorm looks back up at the sky and does a double-take, “Perceptor? I’m not exactly an expert on Earth weather, so correct me if I’m wrong—which is unlikely, but there’s a first for everything—but I’m pretty sure Earth clouds should not move like that.”

Already, Perceptor is behind Brainstorm, squinting up at the dark mass forming and re-forming in the sky above. “From what I can see, they seem to be spaceships of some kind. Judging from the way that they move in practically perfect unison—with perhaps 0.3 degrees of deviation, but then again this is just an estimate—this is either the work of a very, _very_ co-ordinated and skilled pilots or this is the battle fleet of a CCS, a collective-consciousness species.

“Judging from the sheer amount of resources to train crew members who are close and likeminded enough for complete unity, we’re likely dealing with a CCS at this level of synchronization. Based on the number of ships in this size and how armored they are, and taking into consideration factors such as a propensity for CCS to focus on expansion, we are looing at a colonizing attempt. A very forceful one.”

“Yeah, kinda got the same conclusion you did,” Brainstorm nods up at the centre of the undulating mass, where three large spaceships hover as the smaller ships swarm around in a protective sphere. “Those things right there? You see those cannons, right? That screams ‘Battleship Commanding Class’ like nothing else.”

The gravity of the situation dawning on them, Perceptor is the fastest to act and activates his commlink and sends a call straight to Rodimus’ private frequency, “Rodimus. We’ve got a— “

_“Ah Perceptor! Before you continue, ask yourself this one question. One, can you simplify what it is you’re about to say? Thirty words or less is ideal.”_

Perceptor frowns, “Rodimus, this is ridiculous.”

_“That’s four words already.”_

“Rodimus! I’ll simplify it,” Brainstorm calls out at Perceptor’s commlink. “Unknown battleships outside! Not friendly-looking.”

_“Thank you, Brainstorm. See Percy? That’s how it’s done.”_

“We’re getting a little off-track here,” Perceptor reminds them. “We’re looking at what is possibly the beginning of an attack on a Council classified developing planet by what is most likely a species with a collective consciousness—“

“Hivemind, just call it a hivemind,” Brainstorm interrupts, earning him an aggravated sigh from his lab partner.

“Judging from the composition of the fleet in front of us, it’s safe to assume that we’re likely dealing with a majority of drones. The sheer number of drone ships suggests that a controlling or guiding entity is nearby.”

“Maybe one of those V.I.S up there?” Brainstorm asks, nodding up at the three battleships.

“V.I.S?”

“Very Important Ships.”

“A likely guess, but not a definite answer,” Perceptor takes out his scanner from where he’s stored it in his subspace and places it over his eye, trying to pick up as much details as he can about the spaceships. “Behaviour of CCS is widely varied, and there’s no textbook method of dealing with all of them.”

 _“Good news,”_ Rodimus interrupts. _“Ultra Magnus happens to know. He claims we’re dealing with Hymenops, from whatsitcalled. I clean forgot the planet’s name the second after he said it. Anyways, Mags says he recognizes the make of the ships.”_

In the background of the call, Perceptor hears Ultra Magnus’s grumbling over something about “section 83 subsection 24 of the Galactic Code” being broken. Rodimus shushes his second in command.

“Hymenops, hmm? Let’s see… they’re definitely categorized as CCS. Like most other CCS, especially space-faring ones, they’re colonizers. Their colonization fleets typically involve some combination of drone ships, warships, and a command ship that stays separate from the rest of the fleet but within range of influence.”

“Aww Perceptor, you’re like a walking encyclopedia,” Brainstorm coos. “It’s adorable and a little infuriating at the same time!”

“Brainstorm,” and there it is, the classic exasperated Perceptor reprimand. “Focus.”

“Right, right… command ship near the fleet but not a part of it… Now, where could that be? If I were a V.I.S, where would be a good hiding place for me?” Brainstorm taps his chin, making theatrical pondering noises. “It _couldn’t_ possibly be the patch of densely forested area over there, could it?”

“Brainstorm,” Perceptor says in a warning tone. Only one word? Brainstorm thinks this might have been the shortest sentence Perceptor has said ever. (Does exasperatedly calling out someone’s name constitute as a sentence? Only Ultra Magnus knows.)

“Haha, yes, right. Be serious,” Brainstorm coughs. “Saw a ship of some sort land over in that area while Percy was talking about the Hyenas— “

“Hymenops.”

“Yes, those. Thank you, Percy. You always pull through like a perpetually exasperated sidekick. If what you’ve said is right, then I’m pretty certain that we’re right in the vicinity of the command ship.”

Perceptor nods, “The area is a strategic location. It’s sparsely populated, and there’s plenty of cover for it to stay hidden.”

_“Great job, guys! Now enough chitchat, let’s beat up some trespassers! I’ll call the crew.”_

“That would be ill-advised. A large crowd of Cybertronians swarming the command ship will not go unnoticed, and the Hymenops will either choose to retreat or call down the fleet to attack us. Either decision will result in increased difficulty in preventing an attack.”

 _“What? I thought that we_ want _to get these aliens to retreat.”_

“We want to prevent the invasion. Their retreat will only prolong the inevitable and give them a chance to respond and adapt to our presence. And if they choose to attack, then preventing an invasion will be made much more difficult when we’re defenseless and being _shot at_ by battleships.”

“Hate to say this, Roddy, but Percy is right.”

_“Alright, alright. Geez, no charging in blind, guns blazing. Take the fun out of everything, why don’t you? You and Mags here could start a club. So what, we’re just going to tiptoe into the ship?”_

“More or less,” Brainstorm lets out a slow, pondering hum. “Say, Rodders, can you tell me who’s in our area?”

\---

There isn’t much around the area of the conference, and Cyclonus isn’t really all that fond of Earth. But Tailgate is having the time of his life even out in the middle of nowhere, and Cyclonus begrudgingly decided to tag along just to make sure his roommate’s exuberance doesn’t net him in trouble as usual. Not more trouble than usual, anyways.

Tailgate soon gets tired of inspecting the planet’s flora, sheepishly admitting that he can’t tell the difference between most of the plants described in the guidebook that Rung had purchased for him. Tailgate is drawn towards the more populated areas, as Cyclonus expected. Tailgate is nothing if not social.

Because Tailgate makes friends both quickly and easily (much to Cyclonus’ mixed feelings of fondness and exasperation), it doesn’t take long before their group grows to its usual menagerie of Lost Light crew. Not much of a talker, Cyclonus is content to hover near the back and keep an eye out for the others.

Rewind is regaling Tailgate with a tale (that is admittedly very, very much abridged) of Optimus Prime and the Autobots’ involvement on Earth. Cyclonus can practically feel the admiration and awe radiating off Tailgate in palpable waves. Of course. Tailgate’s gentleness and idealism had always matched up with that of the Autobots’ leader.

Lost in thought, Cyclonus runs a finger around the souvenir he was pretending to inspect. On the surface, Tailgate’s idealism could very easily be written off as naivety. (It still astounds Cyclonus from time to time when he thinks about the years Tailgate spent underground, broken chronometers unable to log the years trickling by.) But it’s more than simply inexperience; there’s something in Tailgate that truly makes him believe—or at least, want to believe—in the ideals of the Autobots. Cyclonus supposes that it’s a mercy for Tailgate to have safely outlasted the war.

“That one’s resilient,” an unfamiliar voice says suddenly from behind Cyclonus, causing him to tense up for the barest fraction of a second. It’s not a threat (there hasn’t been a real threat in a while, admittedly), so Cyclonus dismisses the pings coming from his battle protocols.

Cyclonus finds himself turning around to look at the shopkeeper behind him. “What is?”

“That plant you’re holding,” the shopkeeper nods at the item that Cyclonus has been inspecting without really seeing. It’s a glass bauble of some sort, with some soil and a small, fleshy plant inside. “It’s been in this shop forever, but I don’t have a clue how it’s survived so long. I’ve got instructions for it around here _somewhere_ , I’m sure, but I can’t find it right now.”

“A surprisingly hardy piece of vegetation,” Cyclonus notes as he inspects the terrarium. Resilience isn’t exactly a word people would usually apply to plants, of all things. But then again, there are more types of resilience than the ones that measure one’s ability to slough through enemy fire.

He finds himself glancing briefly at Tailgate.

“It’s an interesting piece of work,” Cyclonus says levelly. “I’m willing to take it.”

The shopkeeper looks pleased, “Oh, it’d make a real pretty decoration or gift. I’ll go dig up that care manual for you… it’s probably in the backroom somewhere. I will be right back!”

Cyclonus makes a vague noise of acknowledgement as the shopkeeper hurries off.

Off to the side, Rewind has finished his retelling and he and Tailgate have started to browse the souvenir shop as they chatter to each other. Tailgate frets over the amount of chintzy collectibles he’s amassing, unable to choose between various novelty items he had picked up on a whim. An unbidden feeling of warmth and contentment bubbles up deep within Cyclonus, and for a brief moment he feels the need to capture this moment: warm, yellow light filtering in softly from a dusty window, painting his companions in soft, comforting hues, the world around them unhurried.

Cyclonus’ commlink beeps insistently at him. He doesn’t sigh when he sees the ID of the person pinging him, but that’s only because of millennia of experience in self-control.

“Rodimus,” he’s curt in answering, “what seems to be the problem?”

_“Alien invasion? No, I’m actually being serious about this.”_

“An alien invasion is taking place. And what would you have me do about that?”

_“I want you, Brainstorm, and someone else to infiltrate the command ship, disable it, and therefore prevent Earth from being colonized by what’s essentially a race of ants?”_

Cyclonus waits, expecting Rodimus to laugh and then actually tell him what’s needed. A few moments tick by in silence, but it doesn’t come. “You’re serious about this.”

 _“Oh yeah,_ that _is definitely the most surprising outcome of this entire situation.”_

Someone clears their throat behind Cyclonus, “Hello, sorry about how long that took. I found the care manual, if you’re still interested.”

Cyclonus nods at the shopkeeper, “Of course. How much is it?”

As he finishes up the transaction, Cyclonus mutes his side of the commlink to prevent unnecessary feedback from being picked up. He doesn’t mute Rodimus, however, so he’s subjected to his captain’s running commentary of _“Cyclonus? Cyclonus, hello? Don’t leave us hanging like this. We need you.”_

“Yes, yes. My apologies, Rodimus. I promise I’ll be there.”

\---

“Say that again?” the salesperson squints at Ambulon. The intense scrutiny and suspicion palpable in the air. In fact, it reminds him of Pharma sitting in on his first fuel pump transfer at Delphi—all haughty superiority and thinly veiled disdain. “ _How_ many of these did you want again?”

Ambulon does his best to resist the urge to sigh loudly, dash his head against the wall, or both. “You _heard_ me the last three times.”

“Well _I’m_ sorry that it’s not often I come across a walking math problem,” the salesperson leans back in her chair and with an air of nonchalance—that is rather badly feigned, if you ask Ambulon—she begins to inspect her nails, painted with a cheap light blue paint that had more cracks and chips than Ambulon’s paint job. “If you want all the tires we have available, you can have them—I’ve got no clue why you could _possibly_ need an entire store’s worth, you big, gangly tire-buying man—but it’s going to cost you.”

“I can do a credit transfer,” Ambulon offers.

The salesperson’s thin, faded eyebrow climbs its way to her hairline. “Rich people,” she scoffs. Despite her dismissive tone, she seems rather pleased by what Ambulon says. “Well, if you want to count out the merchandise, you’re welcome to get started anytime. I hope you brought something to help you carry them, because I sure as hell ain’t going to. It’s bad for my health,” she coughs loudly and theatrically into her hand.

Ambulon lets out a long suffering sigh. The things he does in the line of duty. “Right then.”

A beeping from Ambulon’s commlink draws his attention away from the salesperson. A quick glance at the caller information notifies Ambulon that Rodimus is hailing his personal frequency. Odd. “I’ll be right back,” he says to the salesperson as he starts stepping away from the counter to create some privacy for the call. He wouldn’t exactly put it past her to try and eavesdrop.

“Ambulon here,” he answers the call with a frown. No one, save for the medical squad, uses his personal frequency.

_“Hey, Ambulon! Say, you’re around the event hall where Brainstorm and the rest of the smart squad are, right?”_

“Yes, I am. Rodimus, is this something that can wait? I’m rather tied up here trying to negotiate a deal for spare parts,” Ambulon does not have the time or patience to deal with Rodimus’ usual song and dance.

_“Okay, yeah I’m sure that’s important business and all but have you looked at the sky recently? Kind of significant developments happening here.”_

“The sky? No, I’ve been inside. A warehouse.” Calling the dingy, cramped space a warehouse was probably a little generous, but for all intents and purposes of communication, it was a warehouse. “I’ve been buying supplies. Medical supplies. That we kind of need to keep the crew _functioning_.”

_“Well, that’s your first order! Look outside a window.”_

“Yes, yes, I’m looking,” Ambulon has long since learned that placating Rodimus is often the quickest way to make him go. He shuffles around a stack of crates to a window plastered completely with yellowing flyers. It takes a bit of time to scrape off the paper to create a little viewing port so that Ambulon can look outside. “Oh, huh.”

Earth had significantly less air traffic than Cybertron, and even less space traffic. Which was why, for a brief moment, Ambulon thought that Rodimus was playing some elaborate prank on him by showing him a sky that was nearly blotted out by a mass of spacecrafts. Ambulon wasn’t exactly an expert in space faring vehicles, but the sheer size of some clearly screamed battleship class.

 _“Yeah, so we’ve got a_ bit _of a problem. And also a bit of a solution, but considering it’s_ Brainstorm’s _solution, I’m not exactly certain if the solution will involve you leaving the ship with all your limbs intact but… on the bright side Brainstorm and Perceptor have already pinpointed where the main ship is located, and you’re one of the lucky few who will get to tour it!”_

“Fascinating and all but why me, of everyone you could choose?”

 _“If I’m really honest with you? I think it’s because you were the closest,”_ Ambulon doesn’t even need to be physically near Rodimus to feel his shrug. _“You’ll get a Rodimus star for your efforts. Being in a convenient location at a convenient time. How lucky. Remember to meet Brainstorm and Cyclonus by the back entrance of the event hall!”_

Ambulon doesn’t even have time to put his foot down (metaphorically, that is. Physically, his feet have been safely planted on the ground right from the moment that Rodimus called. Ambulon has developed a learned sort of wariness when it comes to his captain’s shenanigans) before Rodimus is hanging up.

\---

“So I bet you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today,” Brainstorm addresses the three Lost Light crew members gathered in front of him. None of them look particularly impressed. “Well, I have a feeling all of you already know why we’re gathered here today, but you know, I’ve always wanted to say it.”

“Rodimus gave me the impression that this was pressing,” Cyclonus says in his typical, clipped way. “We all know about the situation at hand. There’s no need to brief us.”

Brainstorm sighs, “Destroyer of dreams, wrecker of worlds.”

Perceptor coughs, “If Brainstorm isn’t going to start elaborating on the scant information we _do_ have, I’m going to start talking—“

“Woah there Percy,” Brainstorm interrupts, “there’s no need to scare them like that. I’ll talk, I’ll talk.

“So, Earth is currently under attack, or they _will_ be under attack, by a hivemind—alright, alright cool your engines, Perceptor, I won’t call them that anymore—fine, we’re under attack by a _collective-conscious species_. So while their drone ships and much more intimidating battleships are raining down fire and bombs and other what-have-you, their command ship will be sitting nice and snug out of the main event.”

“That’s self-explanatory,” Ambulon says. “Anyone with even a vague notion of CCS would have inferred that. Why are we here?”

“We’re going to go inside the command ship and try to disable it, duh.”

“You could have said that earlier, instead of that whole song and dance.”

“Wow Ambulon, who emptied their waste tank into your morning energon?”

Ambulon just frowns.

“The rest of the Lost Light will be assisting too,” Perceptor chooses to interject. “Specifically, we will be taking the ship to the sky in hopes of occupying the rest of the Hymenops fleet and buy us some time—but as I said, the operative word is hopefully.”

“A distraction. A good call,” Cyclonus nods his approval.

“I still don’t know why I’m needed around here,” Ambulon protests.

“Well, I needed people with combat experience to help me infiltrate the place,” Brainstorm nudges the medic. “You two happened to be the closest.”

“I’m a _medic_. Not even a field medic; just a regular ward manager,” Ambulon shrugs off Brainstorm’s friendly gesture. “I barely have any combat experience.”

“You’re an M.T.O, though.”

“ _You’re_ also an M.T.O,” Ambulon points out in exasperation.

Brainstorm pulls back and stares at Ambulon as he processes those words, “Huh, in all the excitement, I forgot about that. You make a good point.”

Cyclonus lets out a slow vent of air. This has to be some of the shoddiest planning he’s ever seen, even taking into consideration the fact that Brainstorm was, well, _Brainstorm_. But what is there that they can do? Earth certainly couldn’t afford to wait while they gathered a more specialized (and larger) task force and a plan that was less patchy than Ambulon’s paint job.

“There’s no use in stalling. We should head out immediately,” Cyclonus, ever the voice of reason and the Cybertronian of action, suggests. He turns to the one other person he trusts with a bit of responsibility, “Perceptor, if you would please lead the way.”

“I am regretful to inform you that I will stay behind to help co-ordinate the attack on the main fleet,” Perceptor corrects.

“So the team tasked with saving this planet is composed solely of three people, two of which have limited combat experience?” Cyclonus glances back and forth between Perceptor’s grim expression, Brainstorm’s cheerily glowing optics, and the growing look of concern on Ambulon’s face. “May Primus spare our sparks.”

“I agree. Like most of Brainstorm’s shenanigans, this is utterly ridiculous,” Perceptor and Cyclonus share a look of mutual understanding and exasperation.

“Oh don’t be like that. It’s _just_ ridiculous enough to work,” Brainstorm huffs.

“That,” Ambulon adds apprehensively, “is terrible reasoning.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back with a new rhyme
> 
> and by rhyme i mean chapter
> 
> and by chapter i mean brainstorm shenanigans
> 
> honestly brainstorm really writes himself. Started working on this again after I rediscovered my love for transformers (but mostly my love for brainstorm) I hope you all enjoy!

“I should probably give you guys a disclaimer now that we’re here,” Brainstorm addresses his fellow infiltrators. “I didn’t really plan any further than this.”

Ambulon glances at the smooth, gleaming hull in front of them and back at the scientist. “So after we go inside, we’ll be playing it by ear?”

Brainstorm laughs nervously, “Yes, something like that. But what I meant was that I didn’t plan anything further than _this_. As in, arriving here. I really don’t know how we’re going to get inside.

“Wait, hmm,” Brainstorm abruptly stops and squints into the middle distance, or at the fourth wall. It all depends on perspective. “Maybe there’s enough juice left from the meta-bomb to give us one more abrupt, hastily constructed transition.”

Ignoring Ambulon and Cyclonus’ confused looks, Brainstorm begins to pace. “Any moment now.”

Ambulon and Cyclonus just give each other slightly concerned glances as Brainstorm abruptly grinds to a halt, pivots on his heel, and gasps theatrically, “Oh! How did this happen? How did we end up _inside_ the spaceship without any visible way of entry—oh. Hmm. Looks like the meta-bomb doesn’t have enough power left after all. Worth a try anyways. No damage done, except to my extraordinarily bruised ego, of course.”

Cyclonus and Ambulon can only stare incredulously at the teal jet. “So,” Cyclonus begins evenly, “there is no plan?”

Brainstorm is quick to waver under their stares. “I mean, I figured we could always… just punch our way in? Or shoot? I’m indifferent about which method is used.”

“That’s counter-productive to what we’re trying to accomplish here! We’re trying our best—as measly as it is—at being _stealthy,_ ” Ambulon jabs a finger at the silvery metal of the Hymenop ship. “You think they won’t notice a Cybertronian-sized hole being steadily punched into one of their most important ships? That’s the opposite of stealth.”

“Well, we could just… do it really quietly?”

Ambulon is certain Brainstorm is joking. He has to be joking. There is no other explanation.

“More tact… and a preferably less noisy approach is required,” Cyclonus agrees with Ambulon, the two of them sharing the resigned look characteristic of people who have been in contact with Brainstorm’s shenanigans for just a klik too long.

“I’m all for that plan, as well, but have we gotten any idea how to accomplish it?” Brainstorm questions. “Ideally, we’d be able to make the Hymenops see us as one of them, but that’s not likely to happen—wait, wait that gives me an idea… I’ve got to write it down now. Just give me a tick. None of you thought to bring a plasma cannon by any chance?”

“This had better have something to do with our current situation.”

“I have an idea,” Cyclonus says slowly, tapping his chin in an unhurried rhythm as he ponders. “Brainstorm says ideally, we could make the Hymenops see us as _them_. This can be accomplished through holomatter avatars. Mass displacement and holomatter avatars applied over the top. We have enough energy left in them to get us in, at least. Brainstorm?”

“Might work, might not work,” Brainstorm pitches in. “You’re right about having enough energy for the holomatter avatars to get us to pass—physically—as a Hymenop. In fact, if we somehow snuck onboard right this second, we might even get to wander around aimlessly for thirty minutes looking like a Hymenop if nothing else were to stop us.

“Which is _very_ unlikely to happen. You think that they won’t have a patrol checking every member for credentials? Being CCS makes it easier for them to do that—there’s just _so_ many markers we’d have to replicate—so even if we do _look_ like them, not having any of the other markers would just send up so many red flags we’d practically be wading in security protocols. And _then_ we’ll be trapped inside a hostile ship with all hope of subtlety out the door. So we might as well just break the door down and hope the element of surprise will do something for us.”

“Breaking out will be an easier task than breaking in,” Cyclonus is quick to remind Brainstorm. “Especially if we take them by surprise. And if we engage them in combat, it might encourage them to call off the rest of their fleet to deal with us—the more immediate threat—first.”

Brainstorm huffs, “Ambulon?”

“If I’m honest, I’m with Cyclonus on this,” Ambulon mutters. “It’s worth a try, at any rate, since we’re pressed for time and don’t have much to work with in the first place.”

“No arguing with democracy, I suppose. An unfortunate side effect of being an Autobot,” Brainstorm waves his hands at his two companions, making a little “hand it over” motion at them. “Pass over your holomatter avatars. I’m going to configure them first. In the meantime, you two figure out a way to get inside.”

Leaving Brainstorm tinkering with their holomatter avatars, Cyclonus and Ambulon split up to inspect the ship. It’s almost spherical in shape and made of a silvery-white material that looks smooth to the touch, but when Ambulon runs his hands over the ship’s surface, the numerous delicate sensors in his hand can barely detect neat seams along the plating of the ship. If he holds his hand there, Ambulon can feel a persistent buzzing begin to clamor at the back of his processor—an incomprehensible chatter that he can’t decipher.

“You feel that too?” Cyclonus nods at Ambulon, his hand also held flat against the ship. “It feels like a communication signal.”

Ambulon removes his hands from the ship; the odd buzzing sensation grates on his senses for some reason. Like a tickle in his coding. “Do you think disrupting it would call off the attacking fleet?”

Cyclonus grimaces, “If they’re good soldiers, they might be temporarily confused. But they’ll likely carry out their old orders first.”

Ambulon curses slightly under his breath, “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves or anything. It’s not like we’ve found a _door_ or anything… If it weren’t for the fact that I can just barely feel the separate plating of this ship, I would think that a large metallic oval had just fallen into this clearing.”

“You can feel the separate plating on this ship?”

“Medic hands,” Ambulon answers, wiggling his fingers. “More sensitive than your average pair of grasping appendages, which is why we’d really appreciate it if you were the one to hold Tailgate’s hand instead when he gets his shots.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“Well then! That’s done with. Took a bit longer than expected, but we’re ready to go,” Brainstorm declares loudly. “How’s everything coming along on your end?”

“It’s a ship alright,” Ambulon starts. “Other than that? Can’t tell you much about it.”

“It doesn’t look like it, but it is using up quite a lot of energy,” Cyclonus not so helpfully adds. “If you try to tune into it, you can sense that it’s a signal of some sort.”

“Okay good work everyone. So far all we can establish is that yes, it’s a ship. And two, it buzzes. Does the buzzing tell you where the door is located? I’m not picky. Front door, back door, side door, waste chute—haha I’m joking about that one, actually. If you do know where a waste chute is located, please tell me so I can make a memo to myself to avoid it,” Brainstorm half rambles as he trots over to Cyclonus and Ambulon and practically shoves their holomatter avatars back. “Put these on already. I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of wary about how long we’ve gone undetected.”

“Indeed. It’s rather suspicious that no one has approached us, or even given the appearance of watching us,” Cyclonus is the first to reactivate his holomatter avatar. There’s a slight shimmer around his frame as the mechanisms start projecting the programmed image. The purple warrior’s height shrinks, and his sharp edges begin to round out or stretch out into something smoother and more insectoid.

“What if they’re already watching us?” Ambulon can feel his nerves creeping in, slowly eroding the sense of abstract calmness that Brainstorm’s absurdity had imposed on him. “We’re not exactly hard to miss.”

Brainstorm scoffs as he activates his holomatter avatar. “Please, if they wanted to stop us, they’ve missed their chance. I vote we go in there, fists swinging. Guns blazing. The whole deal, you know.”

Cyclonus coughs and twitches his new appendages—all six of them. “That might be a little hard, given the physical build of a Hymenop. Activate your avatar, Ambulon. We don’t want to be caught without it, now.”

Ambulon grumbles but does as Cyclonus says. _Click_. He frowns as his holomatter avatar starts slowly forming, “Brainstorm, did you break mine? I don’t think they’re supposed to click upon activation.”

Brainstorm frowns (or at least, Ambulon _thinks_ it’s a frown. It’s not always easy to tell expressions on a species he’s never encountered before), “I did the same procedure with all three holomatter avatars. Cyclonus and I haven’t had any trouble.”

“That wasn’t Ambulon’s avatar,” Cyclonus hisses as he starts backing up. “It’s the ship.”

Sure enough, they begin to see it. A darkening of lines around a section of the ship—the seams that Ambulon had been able to feel—as what was presumably the hatch opens up. A sense of panic begins to fill Ambulon as he realizes that his holomatter avatar hasn’t formed fully yet; he’s quick to follow Cyclonus’ brisk retreat. He throws a glance over his shoulder to check that their scientist has enough self-preservation to also be following along.

But Brainstorm is just standing there, watching the door open—partly frozen in surprise and partly enthralled with fascination. A sense of dread fills Ambulon as he realizes that Brainstorm will be very visible very soon to whatever was awaiting on the other side.

“Brainstorm!” Ambulon hisses. “Brainstorm!”

That startles the scientist out of his own thoughts and he starts stumbling after them. But it’s too little too late; the ship’s door is almost completely opened, and Brainstorm wouldn’t have time to escape notice even if he was in his alt-mode.

In a fit of desperation, Ambulon launches himself at Brainstorm, hoping to knock him down into the tall grass. The medic rams full force into Brainstorm, throwing his entire body weight into the action, succeeding in knocking Brainstorm down a little _too_ successfully.

Ambulon winces when he hears something _clunk_ as Brainstorm hits the ground face first. The scientist groans something unintelligible and stays down, too disoriented to attempt to right himself.

Caught out in the open with an injured teammate, Ambulon instinctively reaches out to Brainstorm, clutching onto the scientist. Bracing himself to fight for both his own life and the life of Brainstorm (or more accurately, run like his life depends on it), Ambulon whirls around to face the ship.

And makes eye contact with a single Hymenop standing motionless by the entrance. Its big insect eyes keep flickering between Ambulon and Brainstorm, but other than that there’s no other movement. For a vicious attacker, this is definitely not what Ambulon was expecting.

In fact, the Hymenop standing at the entrance of the ship seems surprised but not hostile (at least, that’s what Ambulon assumes. They haven’t been attacked yet, so it must be non-hostile, right?). Mostly puzzled than anything else.

There’s a beat of confused silence. Ambulon can feel Cyclonus just outside his line of sight—too wary to move.

The Hymenop standing in the ship clacks its mandibles together, “I’ll admit this isn’t what I expected to see when I came out here for a breather. Looks like last cycle’s celebrations really took a toll on your friend there, hmm?”

Maybe he intended it, or maybe he didn’t, but Brainstorm takes this opportune moment to groan loudly and clutch at his head. The Hymenop nods in sympathy.

Deciding that he has no better idea, Ambulon rolls with this turn of events. “Yeah, uh, you know how it is with the inebriated,” he chuckles weakly.

“They sure can be a handful. Here,” the Hymenop makes a motion towards Brainstorm. “I can bring them in to the medical quarters.”

Ambulon’s nervous chuckling intensifies as he takes a small step backwards, “No, no! There really is no need to trouble yourself. And besides, we… um… we don’t want to get him in trouble. He’s supposed to be… to be on duty. We’d appreciate if you could keep it down.”

“Oh, one of _those_ kinds of celebrators, I see,” the Hymenop sounds almost amused as she looks knowingly between the two of them. “Well, go ahead my friends. You won’t hear a word from me.”

Ambulon turns around and calls in Cyclonus’ general direction, “Hey if you’re done out there, mind helping me get him back to his room?”

Cyclonus casually wades out of a particularly dense bush like it was something he did on a daily basis. Without a word, he takes up a position on the other side of Brainstorm and slings one of the holomatter avatar’s appendages (blessedly fully formed) around his shoulders to support the scientist.

They enter the interior of the ship and head in a random direction. The Hymenop stays at the entrance, thankfully, presumably to enjoy what remains of its break.

Ambulon lets out a nervous breath, aware that he’s tensing up all over. It’s an _extremely_ lucky break that they’ve caught—and call him a pessimist—but he doesn’t think it will last.

“Nice one,” a croaky voice says right beside Ambulon’s head, making him startle and nearly drop Brainstorm. “Woah, careful. I’m much more fragile now.”

“Brainstorm?” Ambulon and Cyclonus stop so that Brainstorm can reorient himself and stand back up on his own. “How’s your head?”

“Oh you know, about as good as I can get after being elbowed to the ground,” Brainstorm winces as he rubs at the contact point. Ambulon left a slight dent. “Wow, you can _really_ hit. I’d complain, but you got us inside with your little trick—can’t believe that _worked_ by the way—so out of courtesy, I’ll shut it.”

Cyclonus nods, “It was very fast thinking, and even faster acting.”

“Was it?” Ambulon frowns. “I just panicked.”

“Well you know what they say on Earth,” Brainstorm shrugs, “don’t look a gift horse in the water and drink.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“Perhaps he’s using it wrong,” Cyclonus nods down at a narrow path that follows the curve of the ship. It has the benefit of being mostly shadowed, a discreet walkway that will allow them to scout out the ship’s interior before deciding on a course of action.

Brainstorm and Ambulon follow behind the warrior, still talking quietly.

“See, Brainstorm? It wasn’t impossible to get in without compromising sneakiness.”

“I never said it was _impossible_. I just said it wasn’t likely to happen, but I guess I underestimated the bond created between people through the universal experience of sneaking in an inebriated co-worker.”

“I’ve never had _that_ experience before.”

“No? Odd, considering you’re a medic. You’re all a tight knit unit and all, right? Hey, Cyclonus, back me up here.”

“I have never snuck an inebriated co-worker back onboard. Nor do I hope to,” Cyclonus replies. The antennas on his holomatter avatar twitch irritably. Brainstorm and Ambulon are wise enough to take that as an indication to shut up and follow Cyclonus silently down the hallway.

They don’t get too far ahead when a sudden burst of noise urges the three of them to scuttle into a dark alcove nestled away in the side of the ship. It’s a tight fit; Ambulon is folded in rather awkwardly to make room for both Brainstorm and Cyclonus. He grumbles at his teammates, “I feel like if we were pressed any closer, our holomatter avatars would fuse together.”

Brainstorm giggles nervously, “Oh that’s not a _big_ possibility. At least, I hope not.”

“What?”

Cyclonus hisses at them to be quiet as the noise they’re hiding from grows louder. Brainstorm and Ambulon immediately shut up, although Ambulon hasn’t forgotten what Brainstorm has said—it’s just filed away under “Probably A Cause For Concern”.

The noise—a peculiar rhythmic buzzing that seems to permeate the ship—passes close enough for them to realize that it’s the sound of insectoid wings. Patrols. The high-pitched whining fades quickly away, drowned out by the noises echoing back from deep within the ship.

Cyclonus relaxes when it happens, stepping out from the alcove suddenly. Brainstorm and Ambulon, not expecting him to move so quickly, are less graceful in removing themselves from their hiding place; they tumble out in a flailing heap of limbs, apologetic scientist, and fed up medic.

“Well, that was cutting it a little close,” Brainstorm laughs nervously as he brushes himself off, his antennae twitching frantically.

“Agreed. We have to exercise even greater caution than expected, especially considering that we’re unarmed,” Cyclonus is beginning to regret leaving his Great Sword back on the _Lost Light_. It would be nice to feel its comforting weight strapped against his back even if he wasn’t trying to stop the invasion of Earth by giant ants. 

“Funny that you mention ‘unarmed’,” Brainstorm begins, scratching at his holomatter avatar. “Since I _did_ bring some things with me.”

“Coming from you, that sounds more ominous than comforting,” already, Ambulon feels warily weary of whatever Brainstorm is contemplating.

"Well, before we continue on," Brainstorm stops Cyclonus from advancing by holding out a spindly appendage. Cyclonus looks tempted to brush past Brainstorm anyways, so the scientist hurries on, "you should check out the presents I brought you!”

"Oh no," Cyclonus and Ambulon say in unison.

"Wow, I'm almost inclined to feel worried when you two talk to me in surround sound like that," Brainstorm says lightly, clearly in no way perturbed by his teammates' growing alarm as he continues to dig around his various compartments. "Say, Cyclonus do you want a gun or a sword? You know what, nevermind. Let's be safe and go with both-- a gunsword if you will."

"What did you just call it?"

"Okay so the name is still a work in progress, I'll willingly admit. I'm still taking suggestions," Brainstorm finally finds the object and tugs it free of his subspace. "Ta-dah!"

"I don't know what I expected," says Ambulon, who really should have expected this. "It's exactly what it's named."

Ambulon is nothing if not an astute observer. The gunsword is exactly its name. It's a gun on a sword. Or a sword on a gun? Who cares; it's big, it's lethal, and it clearly has Brainstorm's scratchy writing along the blade.

"What about 'swun' or 'gord'?"

"Both are ridiculous," Cyclonus tells him as he gingerly accepts the weapon. It's not much heavier than his Great Sword, surprisingly. Brainstorm was a strange bag of adjectives, and "inexplicably efficient" was usually one of them. "But I can't say I'm shocked it's one of your products."

"Gunsword it is," Brainstorm turns to Ambulon next. "I don't really know your preference, so give me a clue here. Lots of firepower? Unlimited ammo? Big and flashy? Sings to you?"

"I don't really--" Ambulon says, distracted. He's busy looking on in concern as Cyclonus gives the gunsword a few experimental swings. It whistles cleanly through the air, much to his satisfaction. Even if Brainstorm didn't specialize in bladed weaponry, at least he still kept the edge honed into a clean, sharp line.

"Hellooo, Ambulon," Brainstorm calls, bringing the medic's attention back. "Don't make me hand you a random weapon. Or do make me do it. It will be endlessly entertaining, I assure you. For me."

"Don't even consider that thought any further," Ambulon says with his best dissuading medic voice. "Just give me something simple. A handgun will work."

Brainstorm boos his choice, "Bland."

Ambulon bristles, his antennae twitching accusing at Brainstorm, "Look, I'm trying to keep things as uncomplicated as I can."

"Like I said. Bland."

"I barely know how to shoot! I haven't had many chances to shoot a gun, let alone practice my aim," Ambulon turns away from Brainstorm, highly tempted to go and follow Cyclonus and keep up an irritated internal monologue until the mission is over. "If you're going to tease me about my inexperience, you can save all of our time by keeping it to yourself."

"Wait, wait. Ambulon, I'm sure I have a beginner's gun stashed away around here somewhere," Brainstorm offers. Ambulon just groans in exasperation and starts his sullen march away. "Okay fine, none of that either. Look Ambulon, I'm not going to tease you for inexperience. You and I are in the same boat. I haven't exactly fired a lot of guns in my lifetime."

Ambulon scoffs, "This coming from the one who's often reprimanded by Ultra Magnus for encouraging others to follow the motto 'see a trigger, squeeze a trigger'?"

"Hey I'm encouraging other people to follow it. Never said I was any good at following it myself, did I?" Brainstorm cracks a nervous smile, and his holomatter avatar buzzes its wings in an echo of Brainstorm’s worries.

Ambulon finds himself hesitantly reciprocating the smile, echoed in his own holomatter avatar through drawn back mandibles into a facsimile of the expression. “Okay, fine. Find me something we don’t need a lot of aim with,” he relents.

“I’ve got just the thing!” Brainstorm eagerly presents one of his weapons to the medic.  It’s rather large even if it’s not anywhere close in size to the monstrosity that Cyclonus is wielding, and there are peculiar coils running along the side.

“It’s your run-of-the-mill stun gun,” Brainstorm clarifies before Ambulon can begin to question him.

“Nothing about that looks run-of-the-mill.”

“If you’re not happy with it, I’ve got others you can pick.”

“No, this is just fine,” Ambulon says hastily, taking the stun gun from Brainstorm. It’s lighter than it looks, to his surprise. He hefts it in his arms, getting used to the way it feels.

“If you’re going to be using that,” Brainstorm says cautiously, from a very safe distance away from Ambulon, “then please point it away from me. You know, electric shocks can induce a holomatter avatar to disperse and I would _really_ hate to leave you and Cyclonus alone together. Can you imagine the conversation? I can’t.”

“If we’re done here,” Cyclonus interrupts the scientist’s rambling, “then we should move on. Too much noise in one area will draw attention to us, and we don’t know enough about the situation at hand to be able to successfully deflect suspicion.”

As if on cue, Ambulon detects a growing buzzing noise coming from an adjoining hallway. More patrols, likely. With a look of understanding shared between the three of them, they hurry as fast as they can down their current hallway and out of sight as the Hymenop patrols enter the hallway they had just been occupying.

"A close one," Brainstorm mutters as the telltale buzz of patrols fades down another hallway.

"Agreed, and yet... not close enough," Ambulon frowns. "It's not superstition--"

"Pessimism, maybe?" Brainstorm chirps, earning a reproachful look from Cyclonus.

"--but I feel as if there should be more personnel for a ship of this size," Ambulon finishes.

Cyclonus makes a soft noise of consideration, "Ambulon has a point. Given all the commotion we've been making, and the lack of effort in covering our tracks, it was only a matter of time before we were discovered."

"And yet all we've encountered are two lone patrols," Brainstorm finishes. "Yeah, when you put it that way, it does seem kind of suspicious."

“Fortunately, we’re a little more prepared than we were just a few moments ago,” Cyclonus taps the hilt of the swordgun, swun, gord, whatever. “It’s better than nothing, but without information, we’re stumbling around blind here.”

Brainstorm nods in agreement, “There should be a place for central command around here. It will definitely be heavily guarded. In our current state, it would be _very_ easy to get overwhelmed… so… I can’t _believe_ I’m saying this but… don’t... do not…”

“Do not _what_?” Ambulon prompts.

“Do not go in guns blazing,” Brainstorm finishes in one big rush. “Whew, that was harder than I thought.”

“Must have been _so hard_ for you to admit that,” Ambulon grumbles as the three of them finally step out of the shadowed side passages. Unobscured, they are finally able to see the Hymenop ship in its full glory.

The walkways spiral around the ship, following its oval design and leaving the interior of the ship mostly hollow to accommodate the large spire rising up from the lowest levels of the ship. It’s a deep golden-brown in colour and at first glance, it appears to be shimmering. Staring at it a bit longer, however, yields the observation that the spire is composed of thousands of tiny, shifting particles moving and rippling like sand.

“What is that?” Ambulon murmurs. There’s something about the spire that unnerves him a little, sets him on edge. Or maybe that’s just the background buzzing noise, which had gotten louder ever since they had stepped out onto the main walkway—it’s a deep, persistent hum that Ambulon can feel resonating inside of him, making his plating buzz and itch.

“A communications device?” Brainstorm guesses. “There’s definitely a pattern to the vibrations, and if I had the time to, I’m sure I could decipher it…”

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Cyclonus informs them, nodding at the patrols above and below them. The closer to the spire they looked, the more guards they saw stationed. “If we’re spotted now, we have to act.”

“The spire is important. It likely could control the ship… and I’ve got a pretty good feeling that’s the case,” Brainstorm taps on his avatar’s head. “So that’s the plan, I guess. Looks like we’re going to have to go in guns blazing anyways.”

“Wait,” Ambulon says abruptly, squinting at the masses of Hymenops below. “If it is a major communications tower, shouldn’t there be technicians? Or at the very least, workers of some sort? All of them look like just… guards.”

Cyclonus and Brainstorm sneak a closer peek at the Hymenop army below. “A good point, Amby,” Brainstorm claps Ambulon on the back. “I knew that gearshift attitude of yours would come in handy one day!”

“How are these things even relevant enough for you to make that comment?”

Cyclonus hushes the two of them immediately, “Ambulon makes a good point, but we don’t have a choice but to get closer and find a control center. We’re short on time as it is.”

Brainstorm and Ambulon both tense, the reminder making them acutely aware of the urgency of the situation. “Right then,” Brainstorm whispers. “Take us closer.”


End file.
